


Mending the Broken

by Keldeok



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sympathetic Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Sympathetic Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Sympathetic Logic | Logan Sanders, Sympathetic Sides (Sanders Sides)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24530704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keldeok/pseuds/Keldeok
Summary: After the argument that takes place after the wedding, the sides are a mess. Virgil and Logan are angry (and rightly so), Janus is struggling to find his place after having been accepted, Remus swims alone in the dark, and Roman has hidden himself away from the others, shunning himself from their careful gazes.Patton, much like the others, is grappling with the thoughts in his head and his own set of issues, but he can't seem to shake that the most recent argument could have been avoided if he'd had a little more tact. Believing himself to be the problem, he sets out to right was wronged and to fix what was damaged.Perhaps if he can do that, he'll begin to feel better as well.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	1. A Chance to Redeem

When Patton awoke it was to sunlight streaming in through the patches of his blinds, many spotlights that danced along the ground and stung his eyes. He squinted at the light, closed his eyes, and turned over in his bed away from the sight. As if on its own, his body drew in a long, deep breath and slowly released it. He didn’t need to look at the clock glaring at him from his nightstand to know he had slept most of the morning away. Despite the part of himself screaming at him to get up, that he wasted the precious daylight he’d been gifted, that he should be awake and making breakfast (or at the very least, brunch) for the other Sides, he curled deeper into his sheets and shuddered at the chill running across himself.

He could remember when he used to get up at the same time every morning, always with a smile, always with a little excitement in his chest at having the chance to start the day. At some point, the excitement, the readiness that accompanied his mornings, had drifted away to only be replaced by a listlessness in his heart.

(He couldn’t stop the small twitching of his lips as the irony crossed his mind, for what kind of a heart can he be if his own is filled with an emptiness that can’t be filled?)

He can’t quite pinpoint when exactly the enthusiasm he’d had for each new day had disappeared, when it had faded away into the abyss, but he does know that it can be traced back to whenever he began waking later, when the time on his clock switched from enticing and optimistic to simply cold and nauseating. It had been around the same period that sleep had begun to elude him, that no matter how early he went to bed, no matter how many special tricks he tried to pull, no matter how much he wished he could simply fall asleep like any other Side it never came. It didn’t help that the moments he _did_ sleep were too short, too sporadic, never lasting more than a couple of hours at a time and always filled with some sort of nightmare or thought that plagued his waking mind.

All he truly knew is that a never-ending exhaustion plagued him despite his best efforts to escape it or push it away. A tiredness rested in his bones, and a weight pressed down on his shoulders and eyelids, and an ache always seemed to throb around his head. He tried his best to hide it when he was with any of the others, for it wouldn’t do them any good to falsely worry about him when he could handle his problems on his own.

(What was there to hide though when he never saw more than one of them at a time? If anything, the recent argument had made it easier to hide his apathy and restless mind.)

Of course, he had no right to be harassing any one of them with his worthless thoughts and his empty emotions, not when so many of them had their own issues to be dealing with and working out (many of which could be traced back to him, he realized).

Virgil, the literal embodiment of anxiety and unrelenting apprehension, had been experiencing extreme amounts of tension, nerves, and irritation since the wedding. He hadn’t even been a part of the conversation, of the argument Patton had sparked, and yet he had seen the aftermath of it all. Virgil was angry with Patton, this much he knew, if the avoidance and silent treatment had given him any hints. He could see the looks Virgil gave him when he thought Patton distracted, an ire that couldn’t seem to be quelled, a rigidness that never disappeared, and bits of alarm hidden well underneath his fury. Patton’s smile always felt forced when he glanced at him, and he could barely hide the sinking feeling in his chest when Virgil would turn away.

Logan, the one always ready with an answer to their dilemmas, had been pushed to the side in favor of letting the argument run on longer than it should have. They- no, _he_ had shoved him away believing that if he could go a little longer without logic everything could be fixed, that his points could be made, that he could show that he had helped to make the right call. He hadn’t though (he knew that now, he did) and he’d only caused the literal voice of logic and reasoning to be ignored; he made the choice to stay ignorant when being _informed_ would have proved more beneficial. Even when he had disappeared, to be replaced by Janus there to guide them back onto the right path, the damage had already been done. He couldn’t even tell when Logan had been replaced, only that one moment Patton was pushing him away and the next Janus was standing before him, his staff in hand ready to protect Thomas from his own morality. All Logan wanted was to be listened to, desperate to be heard and taken seriously, and all Patton had done was add fuel to the fire, burn more bridges than craft them. Patton wasn’t even mad when Logan gave him clipped responses to anything he said or asked, and he knew that he deserved the aching in his chest when Logan refused to look in his direction. It was his fault, of course, and it was only natural he dealt with the repercussions.

Remus, the Side he’d thought for the longest time not including would be helpful, (And how awful is that? How horrible a Side he is forever considering him worthless.) still believes himself to be nothing but vile thoughts, disgusting images and lude pictures that will forever haunt Thomas and his every waking day and nothing more. Patton sees now, with time as his wisdom, that he was wrong, that repressing Remus won’t help Thomas or any of the others, yes, but that some of his ideas have merit as well. Roman isn’t all encompassing, this they know, and Remus enjoying and supplying darker content isn’t a bad thing; for anyone to thrive, they must take part in and understand both aspects of their creativity, the dark and the light. Thomas is older now, no longer the child Patton wishes he still could be, and as such, so is his content, and Patton oh so hoped he could have realized this sooner. Perhaps he could be here on the other side, in the light with all of the others, instead of below. (Maybe if he had come to this realization sooner, he could’ve had a say in their most recent argument. Maybe he could’ve offered another solution that they had overlooked, but Patton had been so quick to disregard him and push him away that he did nothing but cause more grief and hurt.)

Janus, the one who had shown him the error of his ways, displaying the harm he’d caused Thomas and the others all with a mere flick of his staff, still regarded him with unease whenever they met. Though part of his function was deceit (and Patton had to admit that he was an _incredible_ liar) that didn’t make the other Side’s true thoughts about him any less obvious, his tells all too clear even to him. He could see how Janus’s back seemed to stiffen, how the smile pulled across his face appeared just a little too tight, or how his fingers fiddled with the edges of his gloves, always pulling them down despite their perfect presentation. He always tried to make conversation with Patton, always polite and conversational, but Patton could see the deep-rooted uncertainty beneath his calm facade. He still doesn’t trust the others- no, _him_ , but Patton can understand. (Afterall, who would be so quick to trust someone who had pushed you aside most of your life?)

Roman, the one who suffered the most from the wedding, the one he had damaged most of all, hadn’t left his room since the argument had taken place. He can’t blame Roman for hiding away, what with all of the vicious statements that had been thrown around or the barbed comments that had been set out. (And wouldn’t he have done the same if he’d been in Roman’s position?) No, it made perfect sense for him to hide himself away for fear of being hurt more. He’d broken Roman into pieces, told him that everything he did was wrong no matter how hard he tried. All Roman wanted to do was help Thomas, be the hero he thought himself to be, and all Patton had done was screw with every idea he’d come up with, shoot down whatever he created, and shattered his dreams and livelihood. He could see now in hindsight (and what a truly cruel thing it was) that Roman believed everything to be his fault, that trusting Janus, choosing the wedding, all of it had been because of his too large dreams, that if he had repressed his creativity and ego a little more things would’ve turned out for the better (and if only Roman could see that it was all Patton’s fault and not his own, that he was the one who brought this hurt on everyone). All Patton had done in the argument was convince Roman that his negative thoughts were correct, that every little thing he and the others had told him had been a lie. If he had realized a little bit sooner what was wrong, maybe he could’ve mended the broken a bit, but what’s done is done. Roman had hidden himself away, and Patton (like a coward) had yet to even knock on his door.

And then there was Thomas. Patton wasn’t even sure where to begin with Thomas, his core, his center. He’d tried to do everything right his entire life, tried to keep Thomas on track, tried to make the right calls and decisions so that Thomas might end up alright in the end. It had been so much easier when he was younger, when right and wrong could be divided by a simple line. Over time, however, the line he thought so strong, so sure, had been erased, and now instead of clear-cut colors on either side, it left a muddled mess in the middle and uncertainty in its wake. He’d thought the wedding had been the right call, he really had, but after the argument they’d endured, when the truth finally came to settle on the playing field, he’d only hurt Thomas. He had pushed his boundaries too far and damaged the one person he’d promised forever to protect. (How could Thomas ever find it in himself to forgive him for that, for not only hurting the other Sides but his very being as well?)

How, then, could he ever possibly burden them with these thoughts running rampant in his head, with this indifference that had settled itself in his bones when they had so much worse to be dealing with? In fact, he didn’t even deserve to be feeling this way when they had to handle issues and hindrances created by his own lack of tact. He had no right to be feeling any sort of sadness or emptiness when his problems could never add up to theirs, when their feelings must be more _real_ than his own.

Patton opened his eyes, rolled onto his other side, and stared at the spots of sun that danced on his carpet. He sighed once, a long thing that dragged throughout his body and seemed to carry a new weight with it. Pushing with his arms, he sat up in his bed, his eyes still on the floor as he folded his legs in a crisscross fashion and grabbed one of his plushies to press his face against.

Perhaps his feelings could never amount to theirs, and perhaps his hollowness could never hold the same amount of weight as the problems he caused to scatter amongst them, but maybe…

Maybe he could help to fix them.

If he could go to each of them, if he could help them in their plights (with their own issues and worries that he’d only helped to create), then maybe things will be alright again. Maybe they can finally be a family again, and they can have meals together, and watch funny movies. Maybe, if he does this, the void within himself will finally fill and he’ll begin to feel something once more. (Maybe he can finally be happy again.)

_It’s worth a shot_ , he finally decided. Afterall, if this doesn’t fix things, this will only prove himself right in the end, that he’s more trouble than he’s worth. If this doesn’t work, he can make the final call that’s been lingering in the back of his mind for some time now, one he’s been too frightened to fulfill until now. If nothing works, then at least he’ll know he had no reason to wait as long as he did.

Rubbing at his eyes and brushing a hand through his hair, he stood, the plushie thrown haphazardly on his pillow. He took one look around his room, at the clothes strewn across the floor, at the boxes of memories piled into one corner, at the desk chair stuffed with broken toys and stuffed animals he had yet to mend back together, before working up the courage to enter his bathroom and look presentable for the day.

Even if it took all of his energy, he needed to at least try one final time to make things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this ended up being alright! I'm still getting used to how archive works (as this is my first time posting something on it) and I make no promises for frequent updates just yet (but know that I have it planned out exactly what I want to fix to be and where it needs to go, if that helps with anything). If something looks off, just let me know and I'll do my best to fix it!
> 
> If I'm honest, with everything going on (in the world and in my personal life) I just needed someone I can project onto, and low and behold, Patton is the perfect guy! Despite this, I'm still trying to keep them as close to canon as I can without straying too far away, but who knows what will happen. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope whoever is reading this has a lovely day and/or night!


	2. A Chance to Bake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patton needed to start with someone if he ever hoped to fix what he'd done, needed to choose one Side to put his plan into motion. 
> 
> Virgil, the only Side Patton still saw in the mornings, seems as good a place as any to start.

Patton would be lying if he said he had purposely chosen Virgil as the first Side to try and fix things with, to apologize in great lengths to. It had been complete chance that when he wandered into the living room that morning he saw Virgil sitting in the crook of the couch he’d long ago claimed as his own. His legs were pulled up onto the cushions in a mellow manner he rarely saw from the Side anymore, his knees pressed into his chest while his arms dangled over them. He had his headphones on with his hood pulled over them, and his eyes followed the phone held loosely between his fingers; his phone, in fact, was the only source of light in the entire room besides the patches that shown through the yet to be drawn curtains and blinds, and his fingers created an incessant tapping noise as they pressed against the screen. 

Before, Patton may have been surprised at finding Virgil awake so early (he was one of the few Sides who enjoyed sleeping in on any chance he could), and he may have questioned if something had happened during the night to send him out of his room and onto the couch. _But it wasn’t early,_ he had to remind himself. In fact, he could barely call it morning anymore as the time crested into the early afternoon. If anything, one of the other Sides would have noticed by now Patton’s later waking hours, ones that could almost rival those who preferred to sleep in late, but no one did. 

(And who would be there to notice? Why should any of them be aware when he rarely saw them at all anymore, when they blamed him for what occurred? They had every right to ignore him and the new trends.) 

As he went to say something to Virgil, to muster up the courage to move a few steps closer and speak to him, Virgil’s eyes happened to glance up. The moment he saw Patton in the doorway (for what else could he have seen to make him tense the way he did?) his body went rigid. The tapping stopped for a single moment as a frown overtook his once calm demeanor, his eyes narrowed into a glare, and he turned his head the other way. Before Patton could even react ( _say_ _something, anything_ ), Virgil had stood and sunk out of the room. 

If not for the sound of his own breathing, Patton would have thought the world to have gone silent. 

He couldn’t help but glance around the living room as he sighed, his body suddenly more tired than it had been seconds ago. His heart ached for the lively and bright atmosphere that had once overtaken the space, for the colors and lights that would dance around the room as the different Sides mindlessly bickered over what new idea they should present to Thomas. He yearned for the nights spent in onesies and pajamas when they’d binge watch movies and shows and throw popcorn into each other’s hair, where they’d comment over the dialogue and harmlessly tease one another. He missed the way laughter could be heard from every angle of the home, where he could clearly differentiate between Roman’s loud barks, Virgil’s hidden giggles, and even the rare chuckles that Logan produced when he thought no one listened. 

Most of all, he longed for the Sides, for his family. 

The space that had once been bubbly and filled with life, the place he’d never wanted to leave, now sat dull and empty. The couch once full of blankets, and pillows, and _warmth_ was now vacant and cold. The songs that had spun about in the air, that twirled and beckoned them closer to one another, were now silent. Every color that had been painted, every word that had been said, every little design that they had made together and that had once brought him joy now remained colorless, gray, and melancholy. 

(And look at how somber this is, look at what sort of atmosphere he’d created all on his own. A few slip ups, a couple mistakes, and suddenly he’d ruined whatever comfort they once had together, he’d destroyed the family they’d struggled to create. How much worse can he be?) 

Taking another deep breath, using his hands to help guide him as he did it, Patton tried his best to push away his fatigue. He moved to the other Side of the room and opened all of the curtains and blinds, and though it didn’t do much to change the feeling in his chest, it did brighten the room the smallest bit. 

Even if he could never truly fix what he’d done, he had to do his best to try. 

Patton made the decision for what he wanted to cook up for brunch while he walked into the kitchen, but the choice to deliver Virgil’s food to him came while he’d been in the midst of cooking it. While plating Virgil’s food, and still leaving some out for everyone else to enjoy if they seeked it out, he worried what the others might think of him. He wondered if they’d hate him more for choosing to start with Virgil when given the option of any of the others, and it was while his hand hovered over the plate that he realized it didn’t matter as much as he presumed.

(None of them ever saw him anyway, and if they did, they just turned away. Why, then, would they choose now to start paying him any mind?) 

With a light shake of his head, he picked up the violet plate he’d set out and began making his way toward the hallway of bedrooms, toward Virgil’s room. 

He had to start small, one at a time. If he began making large gestures for each of them all at the same time, he’d only make things worse. He needed to focus on mending one relationship at a time, fixing one problem at a time, before he could place his attention on any other issue. This would work as a good test as well, for if this didn’t work out, if he only brought on more pain and suffering to those he cared about, then he’d know to stop now, stop early, before he harmed them anymore. He’d go through with what he’d been too scared to do, and none of them would have to worry or suffer anymore. 

When Patton finally reached Virgil’s door, one with splotches of purple paint and decorative spiders that hung from the top, spiders which still frightened him no matter how many times he’d been informed they were fake, he raised his hand into a small fist, and he went to knock. Before his knuckles could hit the wood, however, he hesitated. His conviction which had pushed him this far, the weary motivation which had stretched out longer than he could have ever hoped for it to, wavered. 

He wondered again, as his knuckles hovered over the door, what the point of this venture had been. What would this change in the grand scheme of things? Would it make any difference at all? Would Virgil even care or notice that he had done this in the first place? 

(What if it only made his anger worsen, his irritation with him stronger? What if he created more a rift in the mindscape than ever before? What if Virgil saw him and snarled or snapped back at him, threw the plate back in his face? He deserved it, sure, but did he really want to experience his wrath?) 

With his mind drifting and his thoughts spinning out of control, Patton’s knuckle rapped on the door three times, but before anyone could open the door ( _scream at him, lash out_ ), he set the plate on the ground in front of the door and walked away to his room. 

Whatever Virgil’s feelings towards him may be, no one deserved to go hungry (even if he had left plenty for all of them to eat). 

****

A few hours later, after he’d stopped lying in his bed with his feelings scattered about in his head, after he’d finally found some sort of will to get up and move his too tired limbs, he decided he’d go to clean up his mess from before and whip something up for dinner, regardless if he or any of the others would inevitably throw it out. 

As Patton reached the sink to clean up what he’d left behind, to begin his cooking once more, he found a violet plate sitting atop his mess of dirty dishes, one scraped clean of any food or scraps. He could barely hold back the twitch of his lips or the small glimmer that rested in his chest (for he couldn’t nurture any hope for himself, not yet). 

****

A new cycle began for Patton after that day, his smallest of successes. Every morning, still later and later in the day, sure, he’d craft a new meal, a new brunch, or lunch, or dinner, for everyone to enjoy and eat if they so chose, but every time he would also craft a plate made specifically for Virgil. Every time he would place the plate filled with whatever he had made that hour and day before Virgil’s door, and every time the plate would find its way back into the sink when it came time for him to clean. 

(He still had no idea if Virgil was truly eating his food or swiping it into the trash after he’d gone, but he found he didn’t care. The small piece of hope he pushed away wished it was the former.) 

Whenever morning came and he found Virgil on the couch, always in the same place, always in the same crook he’d claimed long ago, Patton always tried to approach. He’d take a few steps forward, the words he wished to say still caught in his throat, but before he could ever get too near, Virgil would vanish much like he had that first day. He thought he saw his frown wasn’t pulled down as much, that his eyes weren’t as narrowed as before, but he could never be too sure. Instead of hoping for something unrealistic, he settled for cooking through his fatigue. 

After the third day of the same routine, Patton decided to leave notes for Virgil with his meals. Nothing too extravagant or pushy (he believed), but something that would remind Virgil that he was cared for, be it by him or any of the other Sides. Simple words such as ‘You’re loved’ and ‘You’re valid’ slipped their way onto the pack of sticky notes he’d found lying about his room, and whenever he’d check the sink later in the day, he discovered the notes never traveled with the plates. 

He followed this trend a few more days too, finally adding in little drawings with happy smiles at the bottom of his notes (first a cat, then a parrot, and now he’d ended up drawing three little spiders with too small grins on their faces). When he grew bored of that, when he desired to do something more, he conjured a tiny gift for Virgil to rest alongside his plate. It wasn’t much, he didn’t think so anyway, for it was only a little cube with buttons that clicked and wheels that spun forever in circles; he’d made Virgil his own personal fidget cube, one with lavender and magenta colored amenities, one with little kitty cats and spiders on the free spaces. 

(While he still feared the buggers, at least he could understand Virgil’s love for them. They could be cute when they weren’t out to eat him, and their webs could be beautiful if given the right space and atmosphere. Perhaps, if all of this worked out, he could ask Virgil to help him overcome his fear in the smallest of ways, to teach him more about his favorite arachnids.) 

The following day, instead of the usual tapping he’d grown accustomed to, Patton heard a fervent clicking. His legs stopped him in his tracks and his eyebrows furrowed the tiniest bit (Had he left something in the kitchen on?), but no matter how hard he listened to the sound, he couldn’t quite make out what it was. Upon turning the corner and entering the living room, he stopped, his eyes widening the smallest amount. 

In the living room (with one of the curtains drawn back, he noted), he saw Virgil, one of his legs lazily draped across the entirety of the couch while the other pulled halfway to his chest. One of his arms draped across the top of his knee, but both of his hands and all of his fingers played and clicked away at the object he held: the fidget cube. 

Patton fought back the sound trying to escape his throat when he noticed Virgil using his gift, something he was so sure, so certain he would throw in a box and never use. To him, it was serene to see the Side who seemed always tense, always agitated, completely relaxed, be that from utilizing his gift or otherwise. The light of the morning (for this time it _was_ still morning, if only by a few minutes) cast a soft glow onto the back of his head and the crest of his shoulders, and the dull room, colorless and mundane, shone like the moon with Virgil at its center. 

When Patton took a step forward, to enter the room as per his usual, the scene ended. Virgil’s head tilted up the slightest amount, his eyes caught Patton’s, and he turned his gaze away. Before Patton could mutter out even the simplest of words, Virgil was gone, the drawn curtains the only evidence he had been in the room at all. 

All of the energy he had sapped out of him, the hope he’d had in his chest (and when had that gotten there, the silly thing) now dimmer and nearly snuffed. He leaned against the corner of the wall, the rounded edge pressing stiffly into his body, and sighed. His eyes never left the spot on the couch Virgil had been, the crook in the couch made perfectly for him. 

After a few more minutes of resting, when he’d gathered whatever energy he could find, he set about cooking once more, a heavy breath escaping his lips. 

****

The rest of the day, he didn’t hear or see any signs of Virgil. He didn’t see his plate in the sink or his figure on the couch (though he never would after that first daily interaction anyway), and he worried if he’d done something wrong once more. Maybe he had been too rash to think things were getting better, that maybe he could fix this after all, but it didn’t matter. He’d scared him off, plain and simple. It was his fault for believing anything he did could right the wrong he’d done in such a short amount of time.

(When he left the food at the foot of Virgil’s door and went to rap his knuckles against the wood, he thought he could make out the tiniest of sounds, a small clicking that sounded over and over again. He stood there for a few moments longer, listening to the sound, letting it fill his ears and flutter through the hallway. The instant he knocked, the sound disappeared, quiet now replacing the endless _click, click, click_ from before. As he trudged back to his room, he wondered if he’d imagined the entire experience.) 

****

The next morning, when he entered the living room, when he hovered near the wall that divided the two spaces, Patton hesitated. He yearned to speak with Virgil just once (for wasn’t this what he had been working towards? To apologize?), and he had even planned out exactly what he wanted to say when finally given the chance. Sure, he’d written it all down on old birthday and holiday cards Thomas had received over the years since he couldn’t find any spare paper, and, yes, parts of it weren’t perfect or even ideal, but he’d at least prepped what he wanted to say- what he _needed_ to say. Nothing he ever said would be the right thing to say or enough of what he wished to express, but he didn’t know what else to do.

With his heart racing (and why would it do such a thing when he knew what would happen), he stepped into the room, slowly inching himself closer and closer to the couch Virgil was perched upon. Today, Virgil sat in a similar position to the first time Patton remembered seeing him: his legs pulled close to his chest, his arms dangling over the tops of his knees, his body nestled into his crook of the couch. He had his phone instead of the cube, he noticed, the tapping ceaseless and only furthering Patton’s nerves the closer he drew. When Patton reached the distance that Virgil always ran from (the space beside the end of the couch closest to the hallway, the place furthest from Virgil’s nest), he expected Virgil to glance up, frown, and sink out like he had every day prior. 

But Virgil stayed. 

Virgil remained in his part of the couch, his arms still draped over his knees, his back still curled into the furniture, the screen still lighting up his face in a number of different colors. Even when Patton took another step closer, one that crossed the imaginary line he’d drawn for himself, Virgil didn’t move. Patton thought he could see his shoulders tense a little, and his legs shift, and he appeared to shake himself of an emotion or idea that he couldn’t fathom, but he didn’t run away. He remained frozen in his place, his eyes still on his phone, his fingers still _tap, tap, tapping_ away. 

When Patton stood as close as he dared (and he could almost reach out and _touch_ him, and he wished nothing more than to fall into Virgil’s arms and embrace him with all of the strength he had left), he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and carefully watched Virgil, waiting for his reaction to their proximity. Virgil remained impassive to it all. 

He swallowed once, his right hand playing with the fingers on his left, and he struggled to find the words. Everything he’d planned, every word he’d prepped, every little topic he wanted to discuss drained out of him all at once. A part of him screamed at him, cried out at the mistakes he would cause if he opened his mouth, but he found he couldn’t listen. 

He had one chance to try and make things right. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he started quietly (and would Virgil still appreciate being called ‘kiddo’ after so long?), “I know things have been tough lately for you- for all of us, and I don’t really know how to go about this, but I thought…” 

Patton took a breath and let his eyes fall to the floor. 

“I thought I’d try to explain some things that happened, maybe tell you why everything went down after the wedding, and… and how what I did might not have been very _bride_.” 

He closed his eyes and cringed slightly at the pun, it falling flat even to his ears. (How could he turn every situation back onto him anyway? This was about Virgil.)

“But this isn’t about me,” Patton sighed, his fingers still pulling at one another. “You’re right to be angry with everything that happened, and you have every right to be upset, but I thought that if I could explain what happened-” 

(What had he thought? That things would get better or go back to the way they were? That Virgil would suddenly forgive and forget like one of those silly movies they used to watch? How could he be so naive at believing that any of this would change that?) 

Patton shook his head, his eyes traveling back up to Virgil. At some point, Virgil had moved one of the headphones from off of his ear, it now nestled behind it instead, and his tapping had slowed the smallest amount. He didn’t let the sight fuel the hope dangling loosely in his chest. 

“You don’t need to say anything at all, okay, kiddo?” Patton told him. “If you would only listen, that would be… that would be more than enough.” 

With another deep breath, Patton began to speak about everything he’d been wishing to say. He started with the wedding and the argument that had been sparked by it. He explained what had happened in as much detail as he could remember, for he couldn’t be sure if anyone had ever actually _told_ Virgil what happened that day, only what came of it. He told Virgil how he had been the one to push Logan away when they needed him, how Janus had come to take his place, how it had been Janus who had saved the day and rescued Thomas when he needed it most. Janus was the shepherd that had herded them in the right direction, after all. 

Patton expressed how he knew how infuriated Virgil must be for not including him in the conversation, but he also addressed how he could notice the underlying fear in his movements, one he didn’t think was brought on by him. 

(“I know you’re afraid of Janus, kiddo, and the changes he might bring, but I don’t think even I could stop the change that’s happening.”) 

He voiced how he understood something had occurred between the two of them, something that had created a rift in their relationship before Virgil had ever swapped sides, and he made sure Virgil knew he had no plans to pry. 

He did, however, explain to him the reasons why he accepted Janus so quickly. 

Patton told him how he remembered what happened when Virgil was accepted, how difficult it had been to realize that he was a vital part of Thomas that needed as much love and nurturing as the rest of them. He tried to make Virgil understand why he did the same with Janus, how he saw the same wish to play his role and be acknowledged as much as any other Side just like Virgil had long ago, how maybe if he had been quicker to this realization, Virgil might’ve transitioned even earlier. 

(“It just didn’t seem fair to me, you know? It didn’t seem fair for me to push him away any longer when all I could see was the same fight in him we saw in you. We gave you the benefit of the doubt at the time. Maybe it’s time for us to do the same with him? And who knows, maybe I’ll end up being wrong again, and maybe you’ll end up being right about this, but we’ll never know if we don’t first give him a chance.”)

On top of it all, the one thing he made sure to pressure into his spiel (could he even call it that? He didn’t know) was to not blame any of the others for what had happened that day or the aftermath that came about. _He_ had been the one pushing to go to the wedding instead of the callback, _he_ had been the one to ignore Virgil and Logan in place of his own ideals, _he_ had been the one to first accept Janus, and _he_ had been the one to push Roman over the edge and send him spiraling. _He_ had hurt Thomas in the end, no one else, and he had created all of the issues they were plagued with now. If Virgil hated him at the end of it, then so be it. At least he’d tried to apologize. 

When he’d finished and he couldn’t find any more words in him to spit out, he let his eyes focus on the stillness of Virgil’s figure, on his hovering fingers that had yet to touch the black screen, on his eyes that stared ahead at the floor and no longer at his phone. Another heartbeat passed with silence and nothing else before Virgil’s fingers returned to their dance. The tapping returned, his headphones were moved back into their proper place, and he shifted once more in his seat. Patton let his head bob once. 

At least he had gotten out the words. 

Patton turned away, his back to Virgil and his noise as he made his way back to the hallway he’d entered before. After everything that occurred, he found he didn’t have the energy or fight in him to cook as he had the days before. When he reached the corner wall that split the spaces, the doorway that led to the hallway, Patton’s hand grasped at the corner of it, his fingers gliding over the smooth surface. He glanced over his shoulder once, the stupid hope in his chest taking hold of him before he could press it away, and he stared back at Virgil, at the Side still unmoving on the couch. 

Virgil’s eyes flickered up to meet his own, and they shone underneath the rainbow lights from his screen. He blinked once and returned to the object in his hands. 

Patton released a shuddering breath as he turned back around, one that caused him to lean more into the wall he’d grappled on to. He forced his lips to smile while he stared at the floor, though it fell from his face as quickly as he pressed it on. His head didn’t look up once as he made his way back to his room. 

This is what he had wanted after all, to apologize and explain, and so why should he expect anything less than bitterness and avoidance when he knows the truth? 

****

The following morning (or was it afternoon? He couldn’t be sure, he didn’t care) had been the hardest one yet, more difficult to endure than any of the previous days. Patton curled deeper into his blankets and shivered as his heavy eyes met the same little spotlights on his floor. He didn’t wish to move, not because of the warmth his covers were providing him with or the yearning to spend just five more minutes in bed, but because he didn’t see the point in wasting his time any longer. Why should he bother with the same routine, the same cycle over and over, when none of it would matter in the end? Why should he waste his time trying to show his love for someone who could care less about whether he still hung around? 

(He shouldn’t, for he could get so much more done if he remained in his room, if he went through with his plan.) 

And yet, despite the urges to slip back into the darkness of his dreams, to allow the hollow void to swallow him whole, he pushed himself up with his arms and sat cross legged on his bed, his eyes drearily watching as the sunspots on his carpet dimmed and brightened with the light outside. He pressed on, picking himself up slowly from beneath his blankets, plushies, and pillows. 

_One more day_ , he promised himself. He’d try one more day. 

With his mind made up, though a part of himself still screamed with exhaustion at living through another day, he carefully set about his morning routine before leaving his room and shutting the door behind him, the tiny click it carried too loud to his ears. He didn’t bother looking in the direction of the couch when he carried himself through the living room, his mind set on the kitchen and nothing else. 

(He couldn’t bear to look once more at the piece of furniture that would house the too angry Side. The hope that had proved difficult to press away had withered and died; he didn’t think his heart could take another hit so soon.) 

When he reached the kitchen and glanced around (empty, like everything else in this house) he realized he didn’t wish to make another boring brunch meal that would be tossed away. He’d make cookies instead, he decided, for it had been a while since he’d baked something, hadn’t it? Though his feet begged him to stop, he worked around the kitchen, grabbing the ingredients, utensils, and bowls that would be required to bake them. 

It was when he had begun to mix the final dough together, his front facing the counter of leftover ingredients while he mixed, that he heard it: footsteps, quiet, unsure ones that rapped lightly against the floor. The scraping of a chair against the tile came next before it all fell silent again, and though his hands had slowed in their work he didn’t let them stop. He tried so hard to ignore whoever had entered, the new presence in the room, but his curiosity won out. With a quick glance over his shoulder, his body froze. 

His eyes blinked once to be sure he was seeing correctly, that Virgil was truly seated at the small kitchen table not even a few feet away from himself. He hurried to face the counter once more, his back to Virgil, to make his hands work the way they had mere seconds ago, but they struggled and resisted. He’d tried not to let himself drink in the appearance of the other Side, but he couldn’t help it; the glance had been enough. 

Virgil sat with his body leaned over part of the table, his eyes still facing the phone tucked between his palms as his arms rested on the wood. His headphones, though they remained on his head, had one of them pulled behind his ear like before, and his hood, always up, always hiding him away, had been pulled back and bunched up behind his neck. His posture remained nonchalant, not rigid like he half-expected him to be, and the tapping, the endless amounts of tapping, was quieter than it had ever been. 

(It had only been a brief glance, the smallest of things, but he truly thought he had seen the fidget cube from before placed delicately on the table beside him.) 

Patton swallowed once as he worked, ignoring the emotion welling up within him, pushing away the wish to question, and speak, and coddle him all at once because Virgil was _here_ . He squeezed his eyes shut, willed everything in him to be quiet, and continued to stir at the mix, feeling as it became tougher and tougher to mix as it formed. After he threw in the chocolate chips and stirred it some more (because that had been what he was making, of course. Yes, he’d _always_ been making chocolate chip cookies, which just _happened_ to be Virgil’s favorite), Patton reached out for another spoon and scooped a small amount of the dough onto it. Quietly, he turned with the spoon in one hand and the bowl pulled close to his chest. 

He faced Virgil with all of the intensity from the previous day, with his heart knocking around in his chest and his mind yelling for him to turn back around and ignore the feelings in his throat. Patton took a few steps forward, tiny ones that barely made it halfway across the kitchen, ones that only brought him a part of the way toward Virgil, before he stopped, hesitated. 

This time, he broke his pause more swiftly than earlier. 

The last few steps to stand at the table were jarring, but he made sure to still keep his distance, to give Virgil space if he wished to escape him once more. With another breath, Patton held the spoon between them, close enough that he knew Virgil could see it out of the corner of his eye, but far enough away that he could ignore it if wished, like before, like every other day. He waited, carefully watching as Virgil’s eyes turned to the spoon beside him, as they flickered quickly between the cookie dough to Patton and back again. 

Just when he was about to withdraw his hand, to take the quiet discomfort with an acceptance he thought he’d already had, Virgil’s fingers reached out to grab one end of the spoon, and he gently took it from Patton’s. Virgil mumbled out a ‘thank you’, placed the spoon on the table (beside the fidget cube; it _was_ there), and began to pick pieces of the dough with his fingers. Patton couldn’t form any words as he watched, his mind entranced at the scene; he settled for a small, hurried nod, and returned to set the cookies on the sheet. 

(He wouldn’t let himself feel the joy those few words had brought him. He didn’t deserve to be feeling that way, not after what he did to all of them, to Virgil. He wouldn’t let himself be caught up in his emotions once more. 

The hope wasn’t there anymore; it had died. It hadn’t returned.

It hadn’t.) 

Patton baked the rest of his cookies without once glancing back at Virgil (he’d never chanced a single look, of course not), resigned to fulfilling his task and nothing more. It was only when he’d finished, when the dough had run out, when there were no more trays to fill, that Patton finally turned to face him. 

Virgil still sat there, still tapping away on his phone at the kitchen table, still with one headphone off and his hood down. His head now rested on the edge of the table, a sort of bored expression adorning his face, but the rigidness of his still shoulders wasn’t there, and the frown wasn’t from annoyance. The kitchen light above him gave the mussed and ruffled hair on his scalp a new life, and the muted yellows, golds, and oranges twirled around him in a perfect little picture, one that made his skin sparkle with life and breathe with color he thought lost for good; though they all knew he would never look for one, it made him appear as if he’d merely happened to find himself under a spotlight. The bits of dust from the room floated through the air and fluttered about in their own dance, one that never took away from Virgil’s light, one that only pushed for others to see the Virgil he knew, the one he yearned to see once more. He wished he could turn it all into a memory and hide it away in his room, one that would let him look at it over and over again, one that would make him never forget what had happened or what he had lost. 

(Maybe to anyone else it wouldn’t have been something to remember. Maybe to one of the other Sides it would simply be Virgil sitting in the kitchen bored out of his mind, but not to Patton. To him, it was Virgil, the quiet Side who always tucked away his smile, who loved _Disney_ movies, cookies, and cuddles, who never once groaned at his dad jokes or puns no matter how awful they could be. To him, it was Virgil, one of the friends he’d lost in an argument he wished he could take back, someone he’d harmed without even meaning to, someone he missed and yearned to be near once more.

Could he ever get that Virgil back?) 

Patton shook himself of his thoughts and the picture in his brain before Virgil caught him staring, and he opened up the cabinet to grab a plate, one of the violets plates he’d been using for days. He reached for the cooling rack and grabbed a few of the cookies that had cooled, ones still warm and gooey but that wouldn't burn off your tongue. Instead of waiting for Virgil like earlier, letting him take it from his hands (because that had been too close, too risky), he placed the plate on the table. He made sure it wasn’t in his personal space but still in his peripheral, far enough he’d need to reach out an arm to bring it closer. 

He didn’t let himself watch this time, the eagerness (the stupid hope) lingering in his chest too much, and he focused instead on cleaning up his mess, on putting the cookies away and doing the dishes that needed done. The sound of the plate moving across the table in the almost silent space told him plenty. 

Patton left after he’d finished, not once looking in Virgil’s direction, his eyes forcefully staring at the floor (and what a coward he was, unable to say a word). He hurried away to his room, closed the door, leaned against it, and let his body slowly slide down it. His head hit once against the wood as he stared up at the ceiling, at the motivational words that he’d placed up there for tough times, words he barely believed anymore. 

He couldn’t fathom what this meant, what this would alter. _Did_ this change anything? Did Virgil still hate him, or did he simply wish for more of his food? Perhaps this morning had all been his imagination, a hallucination of his exhausted mind and body. 

(But he _had_ been there, he knew. He could hear the Side’s breathing, his tapping, the plate against the wood, the chair against the tile. He could feel the ghost of his touch as Virgil took the spoon from his fingers, the smooth plate he’d held in his hands. He’d seen it all, every little detail, every little aspect. He couldn’t deny that Virgil was there, and yet the doubt still sat like a ball in his chest.) 

Patton pulled his legs to his chest and rested his head atop his knees. He let his eyes wander across the messages on his walls and his ceiling, ones that repeated over, and over again, ones with promises as empty as he felt. 

He’d try again later, when his weariness wasn’t as easily seen, when he could step outside his room without his heart running rampant in his chest. 

****

That evening while Patton’s cooking dinner, Virgil returned, earlier this time. His hood was still down, one of his headphones was off, and he’s playing with the fidget cube instead of his phone. The process repeated: Patton made whatever he’d wish to cook that night, he crafted a special plate for Virgil, he set it on the table for him to eat, and, without ever eating himself, deserted the space as quickly as he could (like a coward, a fool). 

The cycle repeated again and again, the next day and the following. During the periods of time Patton would normally cook alone, Virgil joined him. He still sat at the table, sometimes with his phone and others with the cube, but Patton could see small changes occurring. 

The first time Virgil wandered in without his headphones on, the technology resting behind his neck instead, Patton had to bite back his surprise. He greeted him with a small gesture all the same (because they were doing that now, he could look at him and he wouldn’t turn away) and returned to his cooking, his baking, whatever he’d scraped together that day. 

Another day passed, and Virgil asked him a question, one not filled with spite, or agitation, or even about the argument that had taken place. It had been simple enough, a question about what he was cooking that morning for breakfast, but Patton could barely help the pause in his actions. He responded, of course, with the answer, but Patton gave him more than necessary, more than was needed. He began going into the steps he was taking to make it, the whys and hows of the meal, and Virgil would comment, or question, (and he thinks he heard a muffled snort at one point, but he doesn’t know for certain) always looking for more. Patton gave it to him every time, the doubt in his chest only holding on a small amount. 

(He thought of Logan at the time, of how he missed his lectures and lessons, of how he wished for him to teach him something he hadn’t known before. He misses it- no, _him_ more than he once thought. Why had he ever pushed him away?) 

A few more days later (because he can’t quite recall _when_ it had happened, just that it had) Virgil asked if he could help him with his baking. He had been hesitant, uncertain, almost as if he was worried Patton would snap at him for even asking, but Patton had nodded and told him that it was more than okay, used his hand to gesture for him to join. 

(“I… I don’t have to if you don’t want me to. I know you sorta like to do it alone now, and I get it if you want it to stay that way, but I just thought that maybe-” 

“Virgil, kiddo, it’s plenty okay, I promise. Just get over here and help me _cook-_ ie these cookies!) 

Patton has no idea when he first saw Virgil smile, but he knows the memory is burned into his brain. He’d said something, a silly one liner, maybe one of his dad jokes or a pun that would make Roman or Logan groan, but it caused Virgil to react differently. He’d put a hand to his mouth, one covered in flour and dough, and tried to cover it up, the small upward pull of his lips, the short giggles trying to escape from them. Virgil had curled in on himself, his eyes closed as the smile grew a little more, as Patton commented again on what they’d been making, Virgil’s one hand still trying to hide it away. 

(His own lips had twitched in response, a surprised smile finding its way onto his face before he could fight it. A feeling he couldn’t quite name fluttered about in his chest, one that filled his lungs more than ever before, that drove out a little of the empty. His throat released a short laugh as he watched the scene unfold.) 

He can remember Virgil staring back at him afterwards with what he thought was fondness in his eyes, maybe the tiniest hint of glee, but he knows he turned back to the counter too soon to find out. His eyes glanced back at Virgil once just to be sure it was real, that _he_ was real, and he only saw Virgil still standing there with a bowl of dough in one hand and a spoon in the other, that smile still dancing upon the edges of his lips. Virgil gazed at him from the corners of his eyes, and instead of what he’d been accustomed to (the deep frowns, the harsh glares, the disappearing), Virgil merely shook his head and let his smile grow a little bit more. 

Patton could feel it now as he lied in his bed at the end of the day, the glimmer that had appeared and died and reappeared within so short a time. He still wasn’t sure what to make of it, the smile, the glances, their conversations, but maybe he could let the hope sit a little longer, maybe not snuff it out quite yet. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be easy, and maybe things would change, and maybe the empty in himself hadn’t filled quite yet, but he could still mend them, he could still fill it, he could still _try_. The small amount of optimism encouraged by Virgil’s presence had reassured him that he could. 

_Yes_ , he told himself as he curled deeper into his sheets, _he still needed to try._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again everybody, and thanks to all of you who read this one! I think I'm finally getting the hang of this website, so hopefully posting will be a bit smoother now. 
> 
> I'm definitely excited to keep this going and see this through to the end (and I already have plans for every chapter after this, it's just a matter of writing them all out properly). Again, though this chapter came out super quickly, I don't want to make any promises on schedules and all since things can happen that throw a wrench in them. While I also wish to write as much as I can in the shortest amount of time possible, I don't want to burn myself out or cause the chapters to slowly fall apart or worsen either; I hope you can all understand. 
> 
> Thank you also for everyone who has read, or commented, or kudos it so far! I really wasn't expecting to get any sort of feedback (or for anyone to actually read it), but to see the response as something so positive is really encouraging and is pushing me to make this the best I can for everyone!
> 
> Anyway, enough of my sentiments and mushy stuff. I hope you all have a lovely day/ night!


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